


Half a World Away

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-24
Updated: 2009-04-26
Packaged: 2019-11-21 17:56:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What if Bridget's release from Thai prison hadn't gone as smoothly as it had?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had wanted to do something along these lines for some time, though beast that I am, I wanted Bridget to be in for years and years, Mark working like hell all that time to get her out… but I was convinced out of this cruelty at the thought of the harsh life in a Thai prison completely changing the Bridget we know and love for the worse, and perhaps permanently.
> 
> Thanks to [LJ user] ebonybeach for guidance in English trials/sentencing and confirming the nomenclature of a certain breakfast food…
> 
> Title, which came to me suddenly, is from [the R.E.M. song](http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/r/rem/half_a_world_away.html).
> 
> Disclaimer: Isn't my universe, though I do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time there.

Of all the things she thought in that moment after he'd gone, it was, strangely enough, of her sofa. Or her bed, with its squishy blue duvet. Maybe some Ben & Jerry's; definitely some wine. Everything she wanted most after his departure was thousands of miles away.

Her flat. Her friends. Her family. Him.

There was nothing Bridget wanted more than these except for perhaps peace and solitude, and as she was led back down the hall by the guard, she realised that peace and solitude was about as far away as home was. She was met by the expectant faces of her multitudes of cellmates, each of them wanting to know why she'd been taken away, their dark eyes inquisitive, their heads bobbing to get a better view as they waited for her response. When she told them the good news—she would be released within the week—they were stunned and confused. She was sure she looked anything but elated.

It was true; she felt pretty low, but not as low as she felt once she started talking to the other women in the cell. These were women whose boyfriends had beaten them, gotten them hooked on drugs, forced them to work on the street… and here she was, complaining about something as trivial as feeling snubbed at the Law Council Dinner.

She had been the world's biggest fool to chuck him. He might have been a stuck-up snob who folded his underpants, reluctant to show too much affection and hardly a spontaneous bone in his body… but he was a good man, and most important, he had loved her.

She was certain that was no longer the case.

He had said she'd be out within a week, but the unemotional manner with which he'd delivered the news made her think he could not have cared either way, that he was conveying this information as a matter of course, that maybe they'd see each other in their overlapping social circles once she was back in London, but probably not.

Her friend Phrao—inasmuch as one could have a true friend after a few days in proper prison—seemed to feel her despair most acutely of all of them. Phrao quietly spoke in Thai to the other women in the cell, after which they started to nod sympathetically and move away from the pair of them.

"You look veyy sad, Bee-jit," said Phrao softly, sitting next to Bridget, taking her hand gently and holding it. "Your bad man no beat you or make you take drug at all, did he?"

After a moment's hesitation, Bridget began to shake her head.

"I sorry," she said. "Maybe he wait for you when you go home." Phrao brightened. "At least you go home, right?"

Wanly she smiled. She could at least look forward to her own bed soon, even if she was going to be all alone in it.

………

One week passed. No release. This stretched into two, then three. The small, dim light of hope shining at the prospect of returning home, to friends and family and even her mother, was growing dimmer by the hour.

Every day she grew increasingly more listless, both physically and mentally; sleeping solidly through the night was nigh on impossible with all of the other women there and the uncomfortable mats they slept on. The persistent unpleasant smell became less noticeable each day. The food was honestly not as bad as she was expecting, not great, but if she never saw another rice bowl again in her life it would be too soon. It wasn't as if they never got to shower—five minutes maximum—but she always felt filthy again within an hour, in part due to the ever-baggier clothes she'd been wearing since her incarceration being dull with dirt. At least Phrao had a contraband hairbrush that she let Bridget use so she could keep her hair from tangling too badly or matting. She knew she was dropping weight, not only from the way her clothes fit but the way her arms, legs and stomach looked, but not even the thought of being eight stone could excite her because she could only imagine how tatty she must have looked, pale, drawn and flea-bitten.

There was a lot she needed to learn at first about how things worked in the prison, which at least helped to take her mind off of the bigger picture; marching out for food and for a little exercise under the watchful eye of the guards; the money voucher system in the prison was explained by Phrao, how her sister had set it up for her and her cousins and family all pitched into it, and was nice enough to buy something for Bridget occasionally, but she felt like a terrible freeloader. She always felt especially lonely when other women's visitors came to see them; she had gotten no mail, no visitors, no word from home at all. _Black holes exist,_ she thought. _I'm in one._

………

Three and a half weeks after arriving at the Women's Correctional Facility, she was told she had a visitor, and was taken by a sour-faced guard to the meeting room. Waiting for her there was not in fact Mark (as she'd hoped) but Charlie Parker-Knowles from the British Embassy. She smiled as she joined him at the table and said tiredly, "Hello Charlie." He did not smile in return, which worried her.

"Hello Bridget," he said, nervously taking some papers out of his bag and squaring them. "Just wanted to let you know we haven't forgotten about you."

"I was beginning to wonder," she said wryly. "Last I heard almost a month ago, I was to be free within a week."

"I'm sorry about that." He dug into his bag again, and pulled out a small white box and an envelope. "This is for you. Some mail, and a couple of cucumber sandwiches and some biscuits. I've already cleared it all with the prison."

Not wanting to seem too greedy or desperate (even though she was), she accepted the box and daintily opened it, unwrapping a sandwich. She might have been stuck in a Thai prison, but she was still a woman of substance. Her heart pounded at the thought of her mail, a reminder that this place was not her only reality, but she'd save it for later. "So," she began after swallowing her first bite. "What terrible news have you come to bring me today?"

"What makes you think it's terrible?"

She pursed her lips. "You look pale and nervous, as if you're afraid I'll claw your eyes out. And you brought me a box lunch in bribe."

At that he smiled, which relieved her somewhat. "I just feel so terrible. I'm afraid due to a paperwork snafu on my part, things aren't moving as quickly, or as surely, as we first hoped."

"Charlie," she said dangerously. "I do not want to spend ten years in prison because of a paperwork snafu."

"We have the best and brightest on the case, I promise you." He dug into his bag again as she devoured her sandwiches.

There was one person who ideally would have been her 'best and brightest' but he had made it very plain that even just showing up to deliver good news had been more than he'd been inclined to do.

"Here," continued Charlie. "This is for you too." He handed her a chocolate bar. She felt her eyes mist up as she took the chocolate; he smiled sympathetically. "Chin up, ol' gal. We'll get you out before you know it," he said. "This is will all be _behind_ you before you know it."

She didn't have the heart to tell him she was tearing up because of the chocolate, though it was awfully kind of him to bring her these things. "Thanks, Charlie," she said. "Please pass my gratitude on to your best and brightest."

He smiled. "I certainly will. I have to go, but I will do my best to keep you better updated."

"Charlie." She bit into the chocolate, savouring every chew. "Can we just keep talking for a little bit longer?" she asked. "So I can finish this?"

He took his seat again, his smile transforming into a melancholy one. "Of course."

………

The closest she ever got to being alone was at night when most of the women in the cell were sleeping, and it was at that time she decided to finally open her envelope, which she'd folded to smuggle back in under her wrap skirt without it being noticed; otherwise they'd climb over each other (and her) for a look at the letter, insisting that she read it aloud. She wanted, _needed_ time alone with her letter. It was the closest thing she had at the moment to being with those she loved.

That night she got a coveted spot near the wall, and she sat up against it as she slipped her fingernail under the tape holding it shut. She was surprised when she opened it and found two letters in there. One was from Grafton Underwood; the other from London. _When it rains_ , she thought, _it monsoons._

The light was meagre, but she was able to read the printing on the envelopes nonetheless. She tore open the London one. It turned out to be from Sharon.

_B.:_

_Don't worry. Taking good care of things for you. Goes without saying that we miss you beyond all reason. Clubbing together to keep your flat and bills paid up to date. Jude, Tom & I are taking turns with your housekeeping too. (Don't laugh.)_

She laughed quietly, and was grateful for it.

_Also clubbed together to set up one of those prison accounts so you'll have a little money to buy things. By the time this reaches you should be ready to go. We can work all that nonsense out later; money not important. Most important is that you have place to come home to, and whatever comforts you can buy there._

She wanted to cry. It was the best news she'd had in weeks.

_When you get home—note optimism of 'when'!—we are treating you to big night at 192. Will buy you as many bloody ones as you like. Fingers are crossed for speedy return._

_Love, Shaz and the girls_

Bridget felt great welling of emotion in the centre of her chest. She set the letter back into its envelope, then opened the one that was probably from her mother.

It turned out to be a short and somewhat inconsequential note from her mother talking about the weather, her herb garden, and Una's suggestion about a trip to the south of France, but also present was a much-welcome note from her usually taciturn father as well.

_Hello, dumpling—_

_Things are dreary 'round these parts without you. Miss your smiling face. You can cheer me like none other (don't tell your mother I said that). I am comforted in knowing that you have the very best working on your behalf, so I won't say anything else but that you can cheer me soon enough in person._

_Much love from_  
_Your dad_

At this she began to cry; she couldn't help it once the tears started to slide down her cheeks of their own volition. Carefully she folded the parental letters back into their envelope, returning it to the larger envelope from Charlie, then folded it again and tucked it into her shirt to keep it safe. She then drew her knees up to her chin and buried her head into her folded arms in an effort to muffle her sobs. Even surrounded by all these women, she felt so very alone.

She woke the next morning curled up on her side, her cheek pressed against the mat that was her bed. Someone—she suspected Phrao—must have pulled her thin blanket up over her, as she had no memory of doing it herself. Of course, she had no memory of crying herself to sleep either.

"Bee-jit." She felt someone's toe dig gently into her back to prod her. That someone then muttered a Thai word she had come to recognise, reiterating in English, "Food."

Bridget scrambled to her feet. She was tired of the stuff they were fed, but it was better than nothing at all.

………

Although Charlie had kept his word and visited her weekly (bringing her boxed sandwiches, mail if she had any, and chocolate bars), there was no progress to speak of. Life in the prison had its own routine to which she was adjusting, adapting and coping. Although she didn't always spend it all, she was allowed a maximum of about four pounds sterling in coupons every day; hard candy sweets, shampoo, even cigarettes when she could, though she used ciggies mostly for paying the other women to do favours for her, or to bribe them to leave her alone when she needed solitude, like when her letters came. She was popular amongst (and well-liked by) her cellmates and mostly left in peace by the prison guards; she could even honestly say she had a few days she would describe as good, and she was now able to sleep undisturbed through the night.

Despite this, she tried to fight off a building disheartenment as the summer and autumn passed, her thirty-fourth birthday passed, and Christmas approached; Christmas, the season of warmth, friends and family, and tradition. She thought of her mother's yearly pestering her to come up to spend the week before the holiday with her, at which she had always rolled her eyes and refused to do. If she could have done so this year, she would have in a heartbeat.

She had mentioned the holiday of Christmas to her cellmates in the days approaching. They had listened with interest and curiosity, as they had heard of it through exposure to western media, but as Thailand was primarily Buddhist, they had no sentimental or emotional attachment to the day itself. 

Waking on Christmas morning was the absolute worst. No paper crowns, no sacks of presents at the end of the bed, no terrible gifts from aunts, uncles and even Father Christmas she had to pretend to like; upon waking, upon realising all that she would be missing, she almost immediately began to cry. 

"Oh, Bee-jit," said Phrao from her spot on the next mat over. "Is your Crease-mah Day make you sad?"

"Yeah," she said resignedly. "I miss my family. My friends. It's a very big deal for my people. Well. Most of my people."

"I so sorry for you," she said. "You innocent too."

"Yeah," came another voice, a woman with a pixie-like haircut that had become shaggy and grown-out in the time Bridget had been there. "Why they still keep you here?"

"I wish I knew," she said, thinking of Charlie's repeated claims that he had a top notch team fighting to get her out.

It was late afternoon Christmas Day when the guards came for her, saying nary a word as they escorted her out of the cell and into a private room. She was perplexed. It wasn't Charlie's scheduled day to come, and she was certain he would have been spending the day with his own family. She asked what was going on, but no one would say a word, only left her alone, locking the door behind her.

The room had a window, albeit high up and with bars, but a window nonetheless. She climbed up on the table there to get a look out, and had to squint at the hazy sunlight that met her eyes. The prison did not have a prime view, just a bleak and grimy metropolitan landscape, but she was happy for it all the same.

"Bridget. Happy Christmas."

She turned around. It was Charlie, and he was beaming a smile. Carefully she scrambled to the ground, smoothing down her filthy clothing as she approached him. "Happy Christmas to you too, Charlie," she said, pleased though a bit wary to see his grin. "It's nice to see you. What brings you here today?"

"Have something for you," he said. "Left it in the car."

She screwed up her face. What good did it do her in the car? "But Charlie—" She stopped suddenly, sucking in a huge surprised breath. "Oh my God, Charlie. Are you saying…?"

He nodded. "It's finally happened, and couldn't have happened on a more perfect day."

Tears came to her eyes, joyous ones flooding down her cheeks, as she threw her arms around him and gave him a hug, caring nothing for propriety. "Oh, thank you," she said, her voice unsteady. "Thank you so, _so_ much."

"I just wish we could have gotten you out sooner," he said, prodding her gently from him. "I hope you can forgive me."

She shook her head. "You were doing your best, and I know you worked very hard for me."

He smiled wanly. "I _was_ doing my best. I really was. We all were. Well." He cleared his throat. "The guards can go back in and get your things—"

"I'd like to do it myself," she said. "I want to say goodbye."

"Of course."

"Oh!" she said, suddenly inspired. "I want you to do another favour for me." She told him.

Charlie agreed with a smile.

She went back to the cell, accompanied by Charlie and two guards. Phrao looked alarmed. "Where they taking you?"

"I'm going home!" she said excitedly. "I'm free!"

A loud cheer rose up in the cell such that the guards had to command them to be silent.

"Bee-jit, such good news," she said, smiling. "And on day of Crease-mah."

"It is like a Christmas miracle, isn't it?" she said, hugging her friend. "I told Charlie to take the rest of my seventy-five pounds and give it to you girls… but a bigger bit for you." Phrao looked extremely touched. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Phrao nodded. "I will. I miss you. I learn so much from you."

"Me too," added Pixie-cut.

"Me too. No more _bad_ boyfreh," added a third, amidst murmurs of assent.

Though thrilled to be leaving, a quick stab of pain shot through her at the thought of her so-called 'bad boyfriend', wondered if he was still seeing Rebecca, wondering how he was, and if he was still angry at her. She sighed, forcing a bright smile. "Goodbye, ladies," she said with a strength she didn't currently feel. In her own way, she would miss them, too.

………

Additional bureaucracy and the gathering of those things she'd had on her when she'd been brought in (like her passport, which she'd felt like kissing when she had it in her hands again, and her necklace, which the act of clasping around her neck again almost made her cry) kept them there another hour. She wondered if they didn't delay long enough on purpose so that they would be leaving after the sun had started to set. Walking outside in December in the early evening was still like being submerged in warm water, but at least there was something of a breeze, and at least it wasn't raining. It felt great to be outside.

Charlie led her to the vehicle, one of those long, fancy things with British flags mounted on the front fins, and they climbed into the back seat before the car shot off through the streets. "I'm sure you're anxious to get home," said Charlie—the understatement of the century—"but I'm taking you to spend the evening at the British Embassy. You'll be flying out tomorrow." He cleared his throat. "We have a physician to take a look at you when you get in, to make sure you're okay. Otherwise we all thought it best for you to have a good meal, a nice long shower, and a good night's sleep."

She wanted to cry, and resisted the urge to pinch herself.

"Oh. Right. I said I had something for you."

He reached over and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She opened it. It was stuffed with what she could only guess were Christmas cards. She felt her lower lip quivering, and she bit on it to stop it. She'd be seeing them all very soon.

When she arrived at the Embassy, it was full dark; she wondered now if this had been not specifically arranged by the Embassy in order to keep her arrival a little more hush-hush. She was immediately escorted to an exam room of sorts, in which she was given a once-over by a very pleasant female doctor who also drew a little vial of blood. She explained it was for testing in order to make sure there were no parasites or the like to crop up and cause Bridget later issues. She wanted to cold-cock Charlie for failing to mention the blood test, but instead only gave him a dirty look upon emerging from the exam room. She supposed it was a necessary evil, after all.

She was next taken by Charlie to a private suite. He advised to take her time in the fully-stocked loo, and to ring downstairs when she was ready for some supper. "I'm afraid the Christmas festivities are long over," he said with a hint of regret. "But we have enough of everything for you to load up a plate. Even dessert."

She sincerely doubted, after nine months of little more than rice and the barest hint of protein, that she would be able to eat an entire loaded plate worth of Christmas dinner, but she had every intention of trying.

She was told to leave her clothing, both what she was wearing and what she had in her bag, just outside her door to be picked up and laundered. She found a pair of pyjamas, folded on the single bed. _Sweet_ , she thought, holding up the top, _but far too small._

She liked to think of herself as environmentally aware and responsible, but when she climbed in under the stream she could only stand there—for how long she didn't know—as the water sluiced over her head, could only watch as the water streamed off of her in a dirty grey swirl as it made its way down the drain. The washcloth she was given was rough and scratchy, and that was all right by her. The better to scrub off the grunge. She washed her hair three times, then used the provided conditioner. For good measure, she washed with soap again.

When she finally got out, warm, pink, and most importantly clean, she stood in front of the mirror, her hair done up in a towel but otherwise still naked, and it was only then that she realised how thin she was. She would have thought she'd be pleased at the sight, but she was instead only melancholy. It was too thin. Sickly thin. Prison thin.

She took the towel out of her hair to comb through it gently, thinking still that it all seemed surreal to not be in a prison cell with a group of other women. She was going to be sleeping in a bed. With proper sheets. In a room by herself.

She held up the pyjama top again, furrowing her brows, considering what she'd just seen in the mirror. On a whim she slipped into it. It fit.

This was going to be a difficult readjustment.

After fully dressing in the pyjamas and slipping into the plush robe, she called down for food; if she'd had any idea how to phone the UK she would have done so. Within fifteen minutes there was a quiet knock on her door, and she barely remembered the name or the face of the person who'd brought her dinner, because as soon as she smelled the turkey, gravy and everything else on the tray, she was lost to culinary ecstasy. She also smiled tearfully at the sight of the Christmas cracker.

Adorned in her paper crown, she ate dinner on her bed and one by one opened the cards. It looked like they had all been sent together in the big manila envelope. One from her mum and dad; Una and Geoffrey Alconbury; one each from Jude, Shaz and Tom; Magda and Jeremy; Cosmo and Woney…

She opened the last one. It turned out to be from Mark's parents; Elaine had written a personal note that they had been thinking of her. It was nice of them, but the one person she'd hoped to get a card from hadn't sent one. She sighed, closed the card, then put them all into the manila envelope.

She hardly ate a third of what she'd been brought, but the fullness was satisfying and she slipped under the sheets, rested her head on the pillow, loving the feel of the cotton sheets against her skin, the weight of the duvet satisfying. She tossed and turned though; she would have expected to be asleep within moments, but she realised that it was the utter silence ringing in her ears that was keeping her awake.

She slipped from the bed and made another call. Shortly afterwards a kindly older woman showed up with a small radio. She didn't care that the only thing it could pick up was faint Indian music and static. It helped to lull her to sleep.

………

Once the tests had processed by the morning, aside from some skin irritation from bug bites, the doctor gave her a clean bill of health, which was good news, though a little surprising. By ten in the morning, she was heading towards the airport. Her laundered clothes had been returned, but frankly, they hung a little loosely from her shoulders; she felt like a frumpy waif. 

Charlie assured her that he would call whomever she liked, so someone could meet her at the airport on the other end. "That'd be nice. Thanks," she replied. In the end, she gave Charlie Shazzer's number. It would have been a long drive to the airport for her parents, even though she knew they would have done it in a heartbeat, and the only other person she would have wanted… well, she was sure he had other plans for Christmas and Boxing Day.

She slept through most of the flight; when she was awake, she read through the newspapers and magazines on board. Lunch and dinner were delightfully English; chicken pasty and shepherd's pie respectively, and black tea with lemon and shortbread biscuits. She drifted back to sleep and when she next woke it was to the sound of announcement of the descent into Heathrow.

She had no bags to pick up, only had her carryon. After clearing through customs without incident, she approached Arrivals, she could hear Shazzer's voice rising above the throng of the crowd waiting there. It was four in the afternoon, still Wednesday the twenty-sixth, six hours by the clock after she'd left Bangkok, after twelve hours of flight, and she was exhausted, but so very glad to see her friend.

"Bridget," said Shaz, sobbing into her ear, hugging her tightly. "I don't know how I can ever make it up to you."

"You don't have to," Bridget whispered. "You didn't do anything wrong." She tightened her hug a little; no further conversation would be needed on the subject.

She heard Shazzer hiccup a little laugh. "Jesus. I feel like I'm gonna fucking break you." She pulled back to look at Bridget; though Shaz was fighting to disguise it, she could tell Shaz was surprised at her appearance. "How are you feeling? Are you okay? Was it a good flight?"

"I'm all right," she said; as they walked towards the exit, arms around each other shoulders. "I got to leave the prison yesterday. I got to sleep in a real bed last night at the Embassy. Had a proper Christmas dinner."

Shaz's arm tightened again. "I hope you don't mind that I told a few people you were coming home." Bridget followed Shaz's gaze and saw that there was a small crowd assembled there: her mother, her father, Jude, Tom, Magda, and even a good portion of the Smug Married contingent. Love swelled in her heart, and she walked over to them to be encompassed by their collective embrace. She started to weep tears of complete joy as she felt tender kisses from friends and family press into her cheek and her hair, heard declarations of how much they had missed her, how much they loved her.

The loving hug broke apart and she saw that everyone had tears streaking down their faces. "This is the best Christmas present I could have ever asked for," said her mother, taking her in her arms for a very tight hug. That caused Bridget to burst into tears all over again, especially as she felt her father's arms enfold them both.

At last they pulled away. "It's so good to have you back," said her father. She could only nod, feeling a little dizzy and overwhelmed. Shaz's arm went around her shoulder, another (Tom's, if she were to judge by the cologne) around her waist.

"I think we should get you out of there," said Shaz quietly.

Bridget remembered Shaz's promise of a night at 192. "Thank you all for coming, but I really just want to go home."

"We'll take you there," she said, then, seemingly reading her mind, added, "We'll have our party some other night."

They headed out to bring her back to her flat. En route, it was marvellous to see all of those things she had taken for granted for so long: the cacophony of auto horns as they cruised down the highway then through the city streets; the sight of Hyde Park, of Wellington Arch, covered in a dusting of snow; even the ubiquitous Big Ben and Parliament as they crossed Westminster Bridge made her eyes mist up. Upon arriving at her flat, she was so thrilled to be back to a space she could call her very own (modest as it was) that she burst into tears again. "I suspect," she said, blubbering between her chuckles, "that this will be happening a lot."

"Understandable," said Jude.

She flopped down onto her sofa, sighing heavily. It was good to be home. Shaz fired up the hearth for her; Jude brought the bag to Bridget's bedroom.

"We got you some food," said Tom. "Until you could get yourself out to the store." Jude and Shaz stood over her, next to him.

"You look so skinny, Bridge," said Tom. "And not in a good way."

"Tom," admonished Jude.

"No, you're right," she said. "Give me a few days and a few pizzas." She tried to be light-hearted about it, but even her bras were too big for her. 

Someone—probably Jude—made her a turkey and provolone sandwich and brought her a glass of milk. She devoured both in very little time flat, realising only belatedly that she must have seemed very desperate for food, as the three of them gaped a little at her.

"Sorry," she said. "Got sort of into the habit of eating quickly so I could get in line for a shower." They chuckled politely, not taking their caring gazes off of her for a moment. Quite suddenly, though, she yawned. "Sorry again."

"Don't apologise," said Jude. "You're probably wrecked."

She smiled and nodded a little. "I am so thankful for everything you all did for me today, but I think I just want to be alone."

Shaz, Jude and Tom shared a look, then nodded. "We'll talk soon, okay? Call if you need anything."

Bridget nodded. They bowed one at a time to kiss her cheek, then she watched as they left. She rested her head on the back of the sofa, turned to look to the dancing flames, pulled the blanket over herself, then closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. It was good to be home.

……….

She was awakened by a loud buzzing. It took her a moment to remember that the sound was her entryphone. She glanced to the clock—by her reckoning she'd only been dozing an hour at most—and pushed back her blanket, getting to her feet. Jude probably forgot her handbag or Shaz her jacket.

She picked up the handset, shivering a little with the loss of the warmth of her fireplace and blanket. "H-hello?" she asked, her teeth chattering a bit with the chill.

There was a pause during which nothing was said, until a voice sounded at last. "Bridget." It took her a moment to place it, and when she did, her heart leapt into her throat. It was Mark.

"Hi," she said feebly.

"I heard you were finally back in the country," he said. "I needed to talk to you about Jed."

She sighed, then pressed the button to release the lock. Of course he was here on business. That was all she could be to him now.

She combed her hair back with her fingers, then went to turn the lamp on just as a knock sounded at the flat door. She went to open it, and her heart dropped at the sight of him: he was the picture of everything serious and professional, his eyes dark and cool, his expression betraying no emotion whatsoever. She could hardly believe he was the same man she had grown to love. The same man she had chucked.

"Hello, Bridget," he said in a flat tone. "Thank you for seeing me."

She pursed her lips, and quietly cleared her throat. "Of course. What did you want to talk to me about?"

He didn't reply right away; he seemed to be lost in thought. "Ah, yes. Jed. Rather, Roger Dwight. His trial begins the twelfth of January. I wanted to ask you to consider testifying. Sharon has already agreed, but having you also…" He paused. "I think with everything you've been through, your testimony would have a very powerful effect on the jury."

"Oh. Um. Yes, I suppose so. When is that?"

"Probably shortly after the twelfth." Mark shifted his eyes around the flat. "Are you here all on your own?"

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and nodded. "Yeah."

"And you're well? Your health?"

She nodded. "Doctor said I'm all right."

"And your treatment while there?"

"Fine."

He turned his gaze back on her, penetrating through her to the soul as he was often so good at doing. "Be honest with me."

"I am."

The gaze was as relentless as his questioning. "You weren't beaten? Abused?"

"No."

"Were you fed well?" His eyes flitted down to her body.

"I won't be eating rice for a while. But yes."

"And the conditions there?"

"It was a Thai prison. What do you think?" she asked, striving for a light tone; "Really, Mark. No need to call Amnesty. I was treated well enough considering it was prison, and the women turned out to mostly be good company."

"Well. I'm glad for that." He shoved his hands into his pockets, then looked at her again. "I'll be in touch about the trial."

She offered a small smile. "Okay." 

He did not look away from her, did not make a motion towards the door. Instead, before she even had a chance to think rationally about his moving towards her, she felt his arms encircle her. She could only blink in shock as he held her close; her posture reflexively stiffened in her surprise as her cheek pressed into the wool of his overcoat. She remained in his embrace for many moments, trying to make sense of what was happening; then, just as suddenly as he'd done it, he stepped away, as if remembering himself, restoring his professional decorum. He then turned to look at her again in that intense way he had practically perfected; she realised for a fleeting moment his expression appeared almost sad before the mask slipped back into place.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, his discomfort palpable. "Good night."

She might have spoken up, told him not to leave, pressed him for an explanation or to talk about things if she hadn't been so dumbfounded by the cool, business-like demeanour coupled with the impulsive display of what had appeared to be affection; she might also have done this if she hadn't just had the longest day of her entire life. Confusion would have to take a back seat to a hot bath in her own tub, to a small glass of wine, to a full night's sleep in her own bed.

She did all of these things, and yet could not stop thinking about the weird scene with Mark. She had been so sure he cared nothing for her anymore, and the evidence for this was plentiful: he had only seen her in prison because business called him to see her on that one instance; he had never once written to her the entire time she was imprisoned; he had not been present at the airport when she arrived, and he had only come tonight for case-related business. So if this was all true, she thought, what on earth did that hug mean?


	2. Chapter 2

First thing the next morning, she phoned her work, hoping upon hope that she still had a job. Richard was inexplicably kind to her, probably because he felt guilty for sending her to Thailand in the first place; when he explained that her time in prison had been treated as paid administrative leave, she was sure of it. She sighed with relief; at least she could pay back Shazzer and the rest who'd kept her bills up to date and gave her money in prison. Richard said, "We don't expect you until after the New Year, at the very least. Build up your strength, adjust to being back, put some meat on your bones."

"Will do."

"Then when you're back," he said, "we expect an exposé on the Thai prison system."

She knew it was too good to be true. She sighed. "I'll see you in January, Richard."

She made herself some coffee and some buttered toast, and for the first time in months she flipped on her telly. She channel-surfed and was bored within minutes, prompting her to turn it off again. She looked around. After months of wanting solitude, she'd gotten her wish, but it seemed too quiet now.

She got up and rang Shaz.

"Bridge!" she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty well," she said, then added, "er… a little lonely, truth be told. What are you doing?"

"Not much," she said. "Well, working, of course, but aside from that, not much."

She chuckled. "Want to come over? Have dinner?"

"Only if it's pizza," Shaz replied. "Want me to ring Jude? Tom?"

"Yeah."

In the end Tom wasn't able to come, so the three of them shared a few pepperoni pizzas and some wine. Bridget was only able to eat two small slices, and after a single glass of Chardonnay she was dizzy and giggling uncontrollably.

She remembered making plans with Jude for the following day to go get a few new outfits for her too-thin form. She didn't remember falling into bed and going to sleep. When she woke the next morning, she realised she sure as hell hadn't missed having a hangover.

She dressed in something she'd been saving for when she got thinner, put on some makeup, and headed out to meet Jude. It was such a light, frivolous day, something she had not had in months; she had a truly wonderful time, almost a spiritual experience. It wasn't until they sat over a late lunch that she felt herself deflate a little as she remembered again (after trying so hard not to) the strange interaction with Mark the night she'd returned to London.

"Hey, Bridge, what's wrong?"

"Oh," she said, raising her head to meet Jude's eyes. "Nothing. Just not used to so much running around, I guess."

Jude smiled. "Yeah. I suppose not." She sipped her drink, then asked in a confidential tone, "What else?"

"I said nothing," she said.

"Bridge," said Jude in a frighteningly maternal tone. "I can tell when you're not giving me the whole truth. Spill."

She sighed, sipping her orange juice. "The night I got home, after you left… Mark showed up."

Jude blinked rapidly. "He what?"

"He came over. To talk about Jed's case. All very businesslike and professional… until he went to leave."

When she didn't continue immediately, Jude made encouraging motions with her hands. "And?"

"He just, well, hugged me."

" _And?_ " Jude asked again.

"That's all," said Bridget. "Then it was like he snapped out of a trance then apologised and left."

"Ah," said Jude noncommittally.

"I was almost expecting cool detachedness after his visit in the prison," she said sorrowfully. "I just can't work out why he would just suddenly… do _that_."

Jude bit down on her lip, looking thoughtful. "It's true," she said at last. "He's not exactly the sort of man who wears his heart on his sleeve."

Bridget snorted a laugh. "You can say that again."

Jude smiled. "I don't know what to tell you, Bridge," said Jude. "Probably just… glad you're back. Safe. I mean, he's not a completely heartless human being, is he?

"No," she said, feeling bittersweet. She'd had first-hand experience at how not-heartless he could be… yet his words in the prison meeting room— _Your sex life doesn't concern me… at all_ —still echoed in her heart. They had hurt her deeply. "I don't suppose he is completely."

……… 

Bridget had thought three days would be enough time to mentally prepare herself for the sights and sounds, the hustle and bustle of 192, but walking in to the place, surrounded by so many people, she was not so sure anymore. She felt on edge. "Oh, Bridge, you look great," said Tom from behind her, wrapping his long arms around her, squishing her to him, then froze. "What's wrong?"

"What?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Well, you went all stiff is what," he said with a pout.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She hugged him properly. "Unfortunate conditioning from being surrounded by many grabby women in prison."

He chuckled into her ear, still holding her in a clench until he pecked her cheek affectionately. "Grabby women, hm? Maybe I should look into getting into the men's—" At Jude's glare he broke off and said, "Oh, Jude. She knows I'm teasing."

Bridget smiled and nodded, though she would not wish Thai prison on even Rebecca.

Shazzer appeared at that moment, a Bloody Mary sloshing in each hand. "As promised!" she said, handing one to Bridget, then raising her glass in a cheer. "To freedom, and to having our Saturday nights back!"

"Hurrah!" said Bridget, smiling, raising her drink to her lips and taking a sip. It was spicy and delicious and she drank it probably a little bit too quickly.

They'd had a great big table reserved, around which was seated more of her friends than she could keep track of. There was an assortment of finger foods from which everyone at the table was picking, and though the place was crowded and the ambience noisy, she mentally acclimated to her surroundings in very little time; she had a second Bloody Mary, and was laughing and dancing with the lot of them as usual.

She did, however, physically tire quickly, and before too long was sitting at the table again, grabbing a mini pizza and eating it between sips of an unadulterated Coke with lime. She'd been pondering the day's date, had been doing so all day, racking her brain as to why the twenty-ninth of December should be so significant when she felt a hand on her shoulder, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin. She quickly turned to see an unwelcome party-crasher.

"Daniel," she said in her surprise.

"Jones," he said. "I thought that was you." He took a seat beside her. "Good to see you're back. Was pleased to hear you were home. How are you?"

"I'm fine," she said coolly. "See you didn't have any trouble leaving Thailand. How was your… _massage_?"

"Haven't lost your biting wit," he said, sounding both amused and genuinely humbled. "Look, I saw them take you away at the airport. I thought they were just pulling you aside for a random search. Figured you'd be on the next flight. When I heard about what really happened I felt terrible."

"So terrible you wrote to me in prison," she said sarcastically, though was astonished by his admission.

"I didn't figure you would welcome word from me," he said. "Not after the way I treated you. And I wasn't sure anything from me would make it past your legal eagles, anyway. But I thought of you frequently." He grinned rakishly; despite everything she knew about him, she still had a moment where, had she not known him better, her heart might have melted a bit. "Let me buy you a drink."

"I don't think so." A drink from Daniel was practically a marker he felt he could call on for sex at any time.

"Something else to eat, then?" he asked. "You look too thin." His tone was surprisingly serious, his concern seemingly genuine.

"No," she said, her voice a little more tender; she had, after all, loved him once. "But thank you."

His eyes flicked down then up again almost appreciatively; a smile still hovered on his lips. "Dinner out with me would, I suppose, be out of the question?"

She laughed lightly. "It would."

He nodded. "Thought as much. No harm in asking, though," he said. 

"Daniel." It was Shaz, hovering suddenly behind her. Bridget turned to see her giving Daniel the look of an eagle eyeing her prey.

"I was just coming to express my delight in seeing Bridget's home."

"No thanks to you," muttered Shaz.

Daniel said nothing, only looked back to Bridget again. "Well, it is good to see you," he said. He stood, but before departing, he swooped to peck her cheek. "Sorry for everything," he said quietly, then left.

"That bastard," said Shazzer. "Swear that man has the sense of a bloodhound when it comes to—well, you know." She looked sheepish. "Women in a weakened state."

"I would have resisted, Shaz. I said I've learned my lesson."

Shaz looked regretful. "I didn't mean to suggest you were weak. Just… not quite yourself yet."

Bridget sighed. "Yeah." She sipped at her plain Coke—she hadn't wanted to drink too much, too quickly, or else she would have made herself sick—and like a bolt from the blue she realised what the date was, why it was (or should have been) important to her. 

It was a year ago exactly that Mark had first come to her after returning from America, the night they'd gotten together at last. Fighting back the emotion, refusing to cry, she then smiled brightly, determined to boost Shazzer's spirits again, and thus her own. "So you said as many bloody ones as I could stand…?"

Shaz giggled. "Coming right up."

………

Something about the plaintive tone of her mother's voice, coupled with her own need to be mothered just a little bit, persuaded her to take the train up to Grafton Underwood the next day, earlier than she usually did for the New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet. Three hours after arriving in Grafton Underwood, she wondered if she hadn't made a horrible mistake, and escaped to her room. Her mother had just gone on and on and on….

_Stop it,_ she chided herself, _and be grateful you're here; it means you're not_ there.

Deep down, she _was_ grateful. She now laid in the twin bed in her childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop thinking about how she'd feared never seeing it again. Every day was a gift. She needed to remember that.

"Bridget?" It was her mother. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. Suddenly her mother was hovering over her.

"You're spending a lot of time on your own."

She took in a deep breath. "I spent nine months in the constant company of two dozen women at least. I think I'm just making up for it a little now."

"My poor Bridget." She sat on the end of the bed, and Bridget felt her mother stroking her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes. "We are so glad to have you back."

"Believe me," she said, feeling warm and cosy. "I'm happy to be back."

There was a pleasant silence during which she felt herself drifting into sleep. "What an ordeal," said her mother, pulling her back from the edge of slumber. "Poor girl."

"You never seemed terribly worried when you wrote."

"Chuh," said her mother. "I was just being positive for you. You were in good hands."

"I think you were a lot more positive than I ever was."

"Oh, come now," said Pam, still in that dismissive tone. "You must have had more faith in Mark than that."

Bridget's eyes flew open, and she pushed herself up to face her mother. "What?" she asked, sure she had misheard.

"Mark, darling. You know," she said, as if she were talking about Una Alconbury or Penny Husbands-Bosworth. " _Your_ Mark."

"He isn't _my_ Mark anymore, Mum."

Pam pursed her lips. "He still worked himself ragged on your behalf."

"Who told you that?" she said. "His mother? She's hardly unbiased."

"Oh, Bridget. You're so cynical." She rose from the bed. "Why don't you have a proper nap? Maybe you'll be a little less cranky when you wake up. I'll make you some biscuits and you can have some tea."

It actually sounded like a very fine idea.

She turned over, holding her pillow close to her, as her mother closed the door. She felt conflicted. She liked Elaine, but what mother isn't proud of her child? Maybe it wasn't Elaine at all. Pam made a habit of exaggerating Bridget's accomplishments; why wouldn't Pam take one flight of his to Thailand and turn it into 'he single-handedly saved you, Bridget!'?

It would have been nice, but it wasn't true.

………

When she woke from her nap, it was dark. It was after midnight; she was still sleeping in fits and starts, as yet not quite adjusted to the time and the culture change. She pushed back the sheets and padded down to the kitchen. Her mother had left her a note on the counter: "Biscuits on the cooling rack, supper in the oven."

She pulled out the pan from the oven; her mum had made shepherd's pie. She was starting to get as sick of shepherd's pie as she'd gotten of rice. But as she looked at it, she smiled. She knew her mother wasn't that fond of making it. Pam had made it just for her.

She scooped out a big bowlful, put it in the microwave to warm it, and took it to the table along with a glass of milk and three chocolate chip biscuits. They weren't hot anymore, but they sure looked delicious, and she'd always had a fondness for her mum's baking.

As she ate, accompanied by the sound of the ticking kitchen clock, her eye was caught by the corners of too-large newspaper clippings sticking out of the side of what appeared to be a photo album. Thinking it might be one of her mother's ongoing projects—she swore Pam was still working on her baby photo album—she pulled it closer and flipped it open.

What she found there was not at all what she expected.

_NOTORIOUS DRUG SMUGGLER FACING EXTRADITION FROM SAUDI ARABIA_   
_Meanwhile, TV's Bridget Jones sits in Thai prison accused of muling drugs for Roger 'Jed' Dwight_  


There was a trio of side-by-side photos accompanying the article. One was a still-shot from the Sit Up Britain interview of Mark and her; another was a photo of Mark, holding his hand up, obviously arriving in an airport; between the two, a photo of Jed. The caption described the photos: _To the left: Bridget Jones (l), known best for snagging interview with renowned barrister Mark Darcy (r) moments after Kafir Aghani's legal victory last autumn. In the centre: Roger Dwight, alias Jed, is currently being held in Saudi Arabia, awaiting extradition to the UK, where he will be tried for attempted importation of Class A drugs. To the right: Mark Darcy, returning from Saudi Arabia on Saturday, says he feels confident that Dwight will be sent here soon for prosecution, and thanks to his efforts and to Dwight's alleged confession, Jones will be back as well_. 

She could hardly believe what she was reading. Her eyes skimmed through the full article, but she still had difficulty reconciling what she was reading with what she knew… or thought she knew.

She then started looking through other clippings. Most of the articles had varying sizes of that same photo of Mark arriving from Saudi Arabia, a cropped-down picture of her from the Sit Up Britain interview, or the mug shot of Jed. As the dates progressed, the articles got smaller and smaller, pushed farther and farther back into the newspaper, indicating the public had found some new story to latch onto, which explained why the press had not been there, swarming her upon her arrival. 

She was astonished as she thumbed through them. It seemed her mother had saved everything she could find on the subject, from the straightforward to the speculative.

_LEGAL TANGLES DELAY ARRIVAL OF 'JED' FROM SAUDI CUSTODY_   
_Darcy vows to free Jones before year end—cutting it close as the trial looms ever nearer_  


_'JED' CONFIDENT OF ACQUITTAL_   
_Darcy insists testimony not key to case—but how strong can it be without the star witness?_  


_FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT_   
_Does his past relationship with Jones factor into Darcy's battle?_  


She set the stack of paper clippings aside the sat back, reeling. She could only stare into her dinner; her appetite had abandoned her.

Her mother had not been exaggerating. Mark had been no mere messenger. He had spearheaded the effort to free her. Not only that, but everyone knew; it seemed as if it had been impossible to avoid, since it had been all over the papers and not exactly secret. So why had no one told her that Mark had been the one to fight for her freedom? Why hadn't _he_?

And then she had her answer; taking a closer look, she realised that in that ubiquitous photo, just to the side of him and partly obscured was Rebecca, obviously there to welcome him home. She sighed, her head a bewildering swirl of emotions; tears filled her eyes. He hadn't done it because he loved her. He did it because it's what he did: he was a good man with a noble heart doing his duty for someone who'd been wrongly imprisoned. She was glad in a way that she hadn't known. She would have felt guilty for all the trouble he'd reluctantly been put through for her.

She wanted to call someone, but didn't know who, and the late hour that it was, it would have been a bad idea, anyway. Instead she managed to force herself to eat her dinner, and as she did, it occurred to her how very hungry she really was. The biscuits and milk were also a lovely, comforting end to the meal. 

She trudged back upstairs, got back into bed, but found she was having no luck returning to sleep, not with the revelation that had just landed in her lap. After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, she pushed back the covers and returned to the kitchen.

With a new glass of milk and another stack of chocolate chip biscuits, she slowly worked her way through reading the pile of clippings, filling her in on every detail publicly known about her ordeal. It wasn't the factual articles that got to her now that the initial shock had worn off, but the more speculative articles, which seemed to confirm her suspicions: _When asked whether his reasons for taking on this legal battle were personal, Darcy is quick to respond with a curt 'No', and that is all he will say on the subject; with a lovely young lady boasting movie-star looks constantly at his side, it is evident why he doesn't wish to discuss his personal life with the press._

"Poppet."

She looked up, realised the sun had come up, and that her father was standing bleary-eyed in the kitchen doorway.

He continued, "What are you doing up so early?"

"I—" she began, but her mouth couldn't find words to finish the sentence. She only burst into tears again.

"Oh, love," he said, sitting in the chair next to hers and leaning over to give her a big, comforting hug. "Ah. I see you found your mother's collection."

In a voice that was barely a whisper, she asked, "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

He drew back, wiping his thumb over her tear-streaked face. "Tell you what, pumpkin?" he asked.

"About Mark. Doing all of this work for me."

He furrowed his brow. "You didn't know?"

"No!" she said exasperatedly.

He blinked, looking from side to side as if thinking very intently. "Oh, Bridget, we all assumed you must have known; that you were working with him via the consulate from prison. After all, it was your friend Sharon who asked him to get you out." She reeled again; he looked at her thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, darling. No one was deliberately trying to keep that information from you."

Bridget thought that was probably true, at least for her mum and dad. She had questions for her friends, though. Surely they were aware she didn't know. 

Her father leaned forward and hugged her again. "Very curious that he didn't tell you himself," her father muttered.

It was, but she thought she probably knew why; he didn't want her thinking she owed him anything. But how could he have possibly expected her not to find out once she'd gotten back?

Instead she said, "Probably thought someone else would tell me. He was busy."

He tightened his embrace reassuringly; she was certain he didn't buy the answer.

"Bridget, what's wrong?" Her mother. She pulled away from her father's embrace.

"She didn't know Mark was the one who freed her," answered Colin before she had a chance to.

"Didn't know? That's silly," said Pam. Her father rose and went towards the counter, presumably to put some coffee on. "Everyone knew. It was in all the papers. Even on the telly."

Her heart flipped at the thought of the recorded news programmes Pam must have gathered… at the thought of Mark on camera speaking about this case. "Mum, I was in _a Thai_ _prison_ ," she said with particular emphasis. "I didn't exactly have access to the _Times_ or the BBC."

"Well, still," she said. "Surely one of your friends—"

"Pam," said Colin darkly from the kitchen counter. "She didn't know."

Pam pursed her lips. "You must call Mark this instant and thank him."

"Mother," said Bridget.

"Well, if you didn't know, you couldn't have thanked him now, could you?" she asked. "He must have gone around the world three times over as much as he's flown back and forth from that part of the world to this."

Bridget felt alternately pleased that he would go to such lengths for her, and guilty that he'd had to.

"It'd be a perfect icebreaker," Pam went on, then continued in a confidential tone, "He could say a million times he didn't do it because of your history together, but I know better." She tapped the side of her nose knowingly. "Elaine tells me how lonely he is, Bridget. I think he still loves you."

"Mother, he has a girlfriend."

Her mother made a dismissive sound.

"He does!" Bridget insisted. "Why do you think we split? He was seeing her on the sly."

Pam looked a little less sure, but still said, "I can't imagine Mark doing that to you."

"It's true." Bridget bent for the stack of clippings, pulled out the one with the best photo of his arrival at the airport. "That's her. Right there. Her name's Rebecca."

"I thought she was just his secretary or someone he works with."

"They do work together."

Her mother said nothing for a long time. "Well, I don't know," she said. "In any case, you still owe him a thank you. Give him a call."

"Pam, stop harassing the poor girl," said her father, returning to the table. "It's still early to be calling anyone. I've got some coffee on, a nice and dark roast like you like, Bridget. I can fry up some eggs, make some toast." He turned to his wife. "Want some, Pamela?"

Her dad, the peacemaker. She thought he might have made an excellent human rights barrister, himself. "Thanks, Dad."

"I'll have some yoghurt," said Pam, then with a smile, went to Colin and kissed his cheek. "But thank you."

Post-breakfast, she started to feel sleepy again, and yawned.

"Must have grabbed the decaf by accident," quipped Colin.

"No, Dad," she said with a chuckle. "My sleep cycle's still a little off with everything. I'm going to go take a nap. Don't let me sleep more than a couple of hours, or I'll never get back on track." She rose from the table as did her father, who hugged her again. Since her return, he had been the most affectionate she could ever recall him being.

"Sorry, dumpling," he said as he let her go. "I'm just too pleased that you're here, that you're home and safe. But oh, you're too thin."

She smiled weakly. "I never thought I'd get sick of hearing that."

"You just don't look yourself." His expression was thoughtful as he continued looking at her. "Are you doing anything special tonight?"

"Tonight?"

He chuckled. "It's New Year's Eve."

"Oh." She pondered it. "Well, I'm here. Not going all the way back to London just for New Year's. Maybe I could call Shaz or Jude to come spend it here."

"That'd be fine with me. Your mother and I were planning on going to Una and Geoff's, and you're welcome to come of course, but you could have a little girls' night in instead." He patted her shoulder fondly. "You think about it. Go on and have your nap. I'll fetch you for lunch."

"Sounds good."

She went up the stairs and within minutes of hitting the mattress was fast asleep again; it seemed that no sooner did she close her eyes, she was hearing a faint knock on the door. "Bridget," came her father's voice. "I let you sleep a little extra. It's one o'clock."

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes. "Thanks, Dad. Be right down."

She got dressed, used the loo and made her way to the first floor; as she descended she heard her mother, her father, and a second male voice in conversation down there.

As she rounded the corner into the front room, she felt distinctly set up.

"Bridget, look who stopped by," said Pam brightly.

She had no delusions that Mark had shown up of his own accord, or that this was the least bit coincidental. She forced a smile. "Hello, Mark."

He was apparently so busy studying her that he almost forgot to speak in return. "Bridget."

"Come, Colin," said Pam in anything but a subtle way. "Let's get lunch set out."

Within moments they were alone in the front room of the house. "I came by to bring something to your mother, from mine. For tomorrow," he added. "I didn't know you were here."

She pulled her lips into a thin line. "If my mother called you over, you can just say so."

"She didn't," he said. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you."

She tried not to interpret it as anything but backpedalling. "I intended on ringing you up today. To thank you."

He drew his brows together. "Thank me?"

"Mark, I'm back in the First World now. You know, the one with television. _Newspapers_." She paused for effect. "I think you know full well what I'm thanking you for."

"Oh." He knew, all right.

She looked at him meaningfully. "Why did you lie to me, tell me you were only a messenger?"

He looked down, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "I didn't want to raise your hopes unnecessarily."

"I would have liked to have had a little hope, you know. Things were very bleak there, and while Charlie was very sweet, extremely earnest, he didn't exactly inspire confidence." She stared at him. "Be honest. You didn't want me to feel guilty."

His eyes flashed to her.

"Indebted to you," she added.

"Yes," he said after a very long pause. "I suppose that's true. I didn't want you to feel like you owed me anything in return."

The man was maddening. "Owe you? Of _course_ I owe you, Mark. You're the primary reason why I'm not in a too-hot, smelly, dank prison cell, sleeping on a straw mat with a paper thin blankets for the next decade. There is no way in this world I could not be grateful."

"I'm sorry," he said. "The last thing I wanted was for you to feel any indebtedness."

She sighed, looked away.

"I think… I should go back to my parents'. They're expecting me." He didn't make a move for so long that she turned to look at him. It was only then that he spoke. "Goodbye, Bridget."

"Goodbye."

She felt emotion welling in her throat but she held it in, watching him leave, closing the door behind him; only when she was sure he was down the walk and back to his car did she loosen the reins on her feelings, letting the tears, the muffled sobs, flow. Fortunately it was her father who happened upon her first.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said, enfolding her in his arms. "What is it?"

"Sometimes I hate being right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [British trial procedure](http://community.livejournal.com/little_details/2043807.html) from Little Details.


	3. Chapter 3

Jude had plans with Richard, and Tom with his sometimes-boyfriend Jerome, so in the end it was Shazzer who came to ring in the New Year with her. "I'm not fucking kissing you at midnight," she announced upon arrival, toting two bottles of sparkling wine, three boxes of Milk Tray and an array of movies on DVD.

For the first time that day, she laughed. "Shaz, it's just you and me."

"If you can't get blind drunk and sick beyond all sense on New Year's Eve," she asked with perfect solemnity, "when can you?"

Shortly after her parents left for Una and Geoffrey's party, Shaz popped open a bottle as Bridget pulled down and rinsed out a couple of her mother's old-fashioned champagne glasses. Within an hour the first bottle was gone, most of it down Shazzer's gullet. Bridget knew that her tolerance was pretty low, so she took her time with her glass. Even after the first small glassful she felt her head spinning a little.

"Shaz," began Bridget. "I gotta ask you why you didn't tell me about Mark."

"Tell ya what?" she asked. "That he's a two-timing—"

"No, that he was the one you went to and the one who got me out."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I didn't want to… rub salt into the wound."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, him with that Rebecca all the time," she said. "I didn't want you to draw the wrong conclusions."

"Ah. Didn't want me to get my hopes up. Funny, he used almost the same phrase." She leaned back into the sofa. "So why did he do it?"

Sharon shrugged. "Because I asked…? And because I think he knew I might bollock him if he didn't."

Bridget chuckled, but was not sure she actually felt any better.

"Really, though," she said, as seriously as she could muster being as tipsy as she was, "he has a moral streak a mile wide. Couldn't sit back and let injustice reign, even if it's an ex-girlfriend who chucked him for being a bastard." She laughed hysterically at her own joke. Bridget, however, could find nothing to laugh at in it.

By eleven in the evening, with the second bottle half gone and most of the chocolate consumed, Shazzer had completely passed out in the middle of the sitting room floor, leaving Bridget watching some ridiculous romantic comedy, which she switched off in favour of New Year's countdown coverage. She'd given up drinking the champagne after the second glass, as it only seemed to make her feel morose. Bridget went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for some tea, instead. The water had just boiled and she had just poured it over her tea bag when she heard a knock at the door. Perhaps Jude's and Tom's plans had fallen through and they'd decided to come after all. She went to the front door, swung it open…

She did not expect for Mark to be standing there. "Mark," she said after a moment. "Hi."

He said nothing. His expression was hard to read, but was the most emotional she'd seen it since returning.

"Why don't you… come in?" she offered lamely, stepping aside.

He did; she closed the door behind him. "I understand Sharon's with you?" he asked in a quiet voice, speaking at last, looking around. "I'd like to speak to you privately."

"Shaz is completely pissed," said Bridget. "We could have a shouting match over her unconscious form and she'd never know."

She caught a small smirk flit on the corner of his mouth before disappearing completely. "I was hoping to see you at the Alconburys' tonight. I wanted to apologise."

She lowered her brows.

"Perhaps I should not apologise so much as ask you for forgiveness."

"What are you talking about?"

"For not getting you out sooner."

"I read all of the articles, Mark. I don't think you could be faulted for not doing your best. There's no need to apologise."

"No, I do. If not for that, then for earlier today." He continued to speak before she had a chance to protest. "I'm afraid my explanation for why I kept you in the dark about my involvement in your release didn't at all come out the way I intended it to."

"So what did you intend to say?"

"I didn't want you to feel indebted to me because…" He looked the ceiling, clearly struggling for the right words, then looked to her again. "…because I didn't want gratitude to force you into maintaining a connection with me that you clearly didn't want."

She was astonished. "Mark—"

"Let me finish," he interrupted. "Then I saw you the day you returned, and the way you reacted to my… well, I then felt justified in my decision."

"How I reacted?" she asked, struggling to remember.

"You didn't exactly show signs of being receptive," he said quietly. "It felt like you were recoiling from me." He then continued, seemingly changing the subject, "I overheard your mother tonight. She was talking to Una about how you had been quiet, keeping to yourself, how you'd been a little on edge, a bit skittish, but understandable considering where you'd just been. When she saw me she… immediately asked me about my girlfriend Rebecca. I have to admit I was perplexed. And then everything made sense."

"I'm glad it makes sense to you," she said.

"Bridget," he said, his voice low. "I'm going to ask you something, and you may end up hurting me with your reply, but be honest. Not knowing for sure is killing me."

She was surprised at his candour, and a little afraid of the question he had.

"All right," she said hesitantly.

"Are you still in love with Daniel?"

As the words came from his mouth, she was convinced he was going to ask her if she was still in love with him, not Daniel; when Mark said 'Daniel' instead, she was completely caught-off guard. "Daniel?"

"Yes, Bridget."

"Why on earth would I still be in love with Daniel?" she asked.

"Because you spent the night with him in Thailand," he said, sounding just this side of angry.

"I didn't," she said, "and I tried to tell you so when you came to see me in prison."

"But in retracing your steps in preparing the case against Jed—"

"I had dinner with him," she interrupted firmly. "I went back to his hotel room. He tried to trick me into bed, but I did not sleep with him." She remembered what her father had told her about Shaz raising the alarm with Mark upon her return. "You could have just asked Sharon. She knew."

He looked dumbfounded, as if asking Shazzer had never entered his mind, as if his pride wouldn't dream of allowing him to beg for scraps of second-hand information. It was also possible that it had never occurred to him that he had drawn the wrong conclusion.

Recovering himself, he said, his expression and voice turning frosty, "Why did you go up to his room, then?"

She shot back, "I thought my sex life was none of your concern."

He glanced down, his posture slightly slumping, the sinews in his jaw working; he looked up to her again, the sadness in his eyes surprising her. "I suppose I deserved that," he said.

Except for the dull roar of the telly in the next room, they stood in excruciating silence for what seemed like forever, but was in reality probably no more than fifteen or twenty seconds. She decided to come clean with him; thinking of that night in Thailand still made her feel like a complete imbecile. Glancing down, she said, "I went up there because I was foolish enough to believe he changed, that he really was undergoing therapy."

"Therapy?" he said.

She went on: "For a sex addiction. Then events occurred that… suffice to say, proved to me he hadn't changed at all."

"You believed him about sex therapy?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, apparently I was _that_ foolish," she said sardonically, then snorted a laugh. "I don't know why I'm even answering you, anyway, when you wouldn't dignify my question about Rebecca with a response."

He still looked shocked and didn't say anything for many moments, until he abruptly uttered, "No."

"'No'?"

"The answer to your question," he elaborated. "It's difficult for Rebecca to be my girlfriend when she has one of her own."

The meaning trickled through; it was her turn to be stunned.

In a whirl, she thought about Mark's tendency not to go out on a limb regarding emotional matters, how brave it had been of him to just come out and ask her if she still loved Daniel. She had wondered why her answer to that question had the potential to hurt him so much; why he cared one way or another. Now it all seemed clear.

And now it was her turn to go out on a limb.

"So to answer _your_ question, Mark," she said, her voice sounding stronger than she felt. "No. I don't love Daniel. I love _you_."

His expression did not change. He didn't move. He didn't blink.

The silence returned, but this time, in this moment of truth, it was crackling with expectation. With the faintest light of hope.

"I lied," he said quietly; the words startled her. "All of it—every flight, every legal brief, every phone call I made—I did because I couldn't bear to think of the woman I loved suffering in such conditions." He paused, then amended, "The woman I still love."

Of its own accord she felt her lower lip start to tremble; with that he swept forward, still in his woollen coat, and enfolded her within his arms. Unlike his previous hug, she allowed herself to melt into him, embracing him fully in return, closing her eyes, feeling tears spill over onto her cheeks. She revelled in his warmth, his scent, in the comfort that his embrace provided her. She had missed him so very much, and was so relieved to know he still loved her.

"When I saw you in your flat the day you got back," he said, his hand cupping the back of her head gently, "my heart broke to think of the months you spent in that prison; I hated myself for failing."

"You didn't fail," she said. "I'm here now."

"You looked—still look—so fragile." His voice was close to her ear, practically a whisper. "I feel like I might hurt you if I hold you too tightly."

She chuckled. "I promise you won't. And I've already put on half a stone since I've been back." She heard, _felt_ him rock with a chuckle of his own, too.

In the other room she heard the swelling sound of the telly crowd, could hear a countdown; fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…. It must have been nearing midnight. She pushed back, looked up at him. "Can you stay a little while longer?"

He must have heard the cheers too, and smiled. "Of course."

They listened to the distant countdown; he raised his hands to hold her face, reverently brushing his thumbs over her cheeks, his eyes searching hers. At the stroke of midnight, he quickly bent and kissed her, tenderly at first, then passionately, before breaking away to clasp her to him again.

"Here's to new beginnings," he murmured.

Together they walked into the living room. Tiptoeing over Shaz's prostrate form, she went and switched the television off as he slipped out of his coat, throwing it over the chair, then sat down on the sofa. As she joined him, he once more took her into his arms. It felt so good to just sit there with him, in the silence, knowing that her feelings were reciprocated, knowing that, though it might be a bit of a bumpy ride, the road to a reconciliation was for the most part a clear one.

"I was an idiot to assume the worst of you," she said in a hushed tone. "I should have—"

"I should have not been so defensive when you asked," he said, interrupting her. "Too many 'should have's, Bridget."

"True," she concurred, tightening her embrace. "And not enough 'I'm sorry's." She meant from herself, but realised belatedly it sounded like blame-placing. Mark only placed a kiss into her hair, seemingly understanding her intention.

"Also true," he said. She understood at once that he didn't mean only from her.

………

She didn't quite recall drifting off to sleep, but she woke to the sound of the front door opening. Mark was still there, still awake and holding her, still smiling in that sweet way he did when he didn't even realise he was doing so. "Think your parents are back," he whispered.

At the same moment, Shazzer jerked awake. "Oh God," she said, pushing herself up to her knees, her words still a little slurred. "I bloody missed the—"

She stopped when she turned around and saw the two of them sitting cuddled up on the couch.

"Mark?" she asked, clearly bewildered.

"Hello, Sharon," he said. "Happy New Year."

She blinked in a very discombobulated way. "I must've had too much to drink. I'm hallucinating." She got to her feet, staggered up the stairs, muttering a "Good night", probably to the Joneses as she passed them in the entryway. Bridget pushed herself up just as her parents entered the sitting room.

"Thought I might still find you here, Mark." Her mother. She was smirking smugly. "You see, Bridget? I was right." 

For once she was grateful for it.

"Well, poppet," said her father, coming closer to the sofa to bend and kiss her forehead. "Your mother and I are off to Bedfordshire." He turned to Mark, the corner of his mouth turned up in a playful curl. "Nice to see you, son. Good night."

She found herself grinning at them as they walked away.

"That's quite a smile," said Mark, looking at her with an adoration she thought she'd never see again.

"I can't tell you," she said, "what a relief it is to have—" She stopped short, furrowing her brow.

"What is it?"

"It's presumptuous."

"Let me be the judge of that."

She pursed her lips and continued. "—to have a man in my life that my parents unconditionally approve of."

At that he laughed a short, abrupt laugh, and pulled her into a hug again. 

She added, "It really takes the pressure off."

"Not presumptuous at all, Bridget," he said, "because I want nothing more than to have you back in my life." He kissed her at the hairline on her temple. "Lord, how I've missed you."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Missed you too."

She felt him place more kisses just by her ear, then on her cheek, then he was searching for her mouth again to kiss her properly and at length. She tried to tamp down the desire building rapidly in her— _because hello_ , she thought, _parents' sitting room_ —but was not very successful, and found her hands playing over his shoulders and chest just as his were roaming over her back. For a fleeting moment his fingertips brushed against the bare skin on the small of her back, which served to snap her out of the reality of where things seemed to be quickly heading, and back to the present. She hastily pulled away.

"What?" he asked.

"It's… getting late. You should go."

A rumble of low laughter. "Darling," he said. "Two things. One, I have enough sense than to try to make love to you in the middle of your parents' house." The heat of a top-level blush filled her cheeks. "Two, there is no way on this earth that I am not sleeping by your side tonight."

She was touched, but at the same time felt a bit thwarted.

He stretched out along the length of the sofa, plumping the pillow at the end, fishing the blanket out, and without words invited her to lie beside him. She did, her back pressed up against his in a marvellous spooning fashion, his arm about her waist, his nose buried in her hair.

"It's just that it's been a long time since—" she began, her frustration evident in her voice.

"March. Yes. I remember all too well," he murmured, tightening his arm for a brief moment. "Good things come to those who wait."

She couldn't help the chuckle that escaped her throat; soon her passion was replaced by the peace and serenity of lying in his arms, and she was once again asleep before she knew it.

………

"Holy shit!"

Those two gasped words were what startled Bridget out of a dead sleep sometime the next morning. She had to admit, though, that the rather sudden way of waking up was more than made up for by the look on Shaz's face.

"You weren't hallucinating last night," said Bridget quietly. Still in his arms, still spooned back up against him, she could still hear Mark snoring softly and didn't want to wake him.

Shazzer crouched down in front of the sofa. "What happened?"

"Too much to explain now," said Bridget.

"What about…?" Shaz began. She didn't have to say the name; Bridget knew she meant Rebecca.

"Never happened," said Bridget. "Apparently has a _girl_ friend."

Shaz's expression did nothing to conceal her utter shock before she asked, "You didn't… you _know_ … right here, did you?"

"Of course not," Bridget said in disgust and a little too loudly; Mark shifted, moving his hand under the blanket from where it had been resting on her breast to her waist again. Shaz quickly got to her feet and tried to look innocent; as per usual with Shaz, it didn't work.

"Well, I'm, um, gonna take off, Bridge," she said, gathering up her DVDs and her purse. Then, with another impish smile, she added before dashing to the door, "Bed's free if you want it."

To his credit, Mark began to chuckle, lazily swinging his fingers in an arc over her abdomen. "It is a lovely thought, sleeping in a proper bed," he said, "though what would your parents think?"

She turned over to face him, put her right arm over his own waist, pulling herself up against him to rest her cheek on his shoulder, nestling into his neck. "That their perfect, wholesome daughter had somehow been led astray," she joked, matter-of-factly.

"Well, we best not shatter any illusions today," he teased in return, in his most serious tone, then kissed her temple, his lips lingering there. "Mmm," he said in a low voice, his hands on her back. "Very much looking forward to being in the right place to lead you astray, as it were."

"You're an awful tease," she said, rearing her head back to kiss him on the mouth.

" _I'm_ the tease?" he protested when she pulled away.

Heavy steps on the staircase brought the playful snogging to an end; she scrambled out of his arms and sat up just as her father appeared in the sitting room. "Good morning, love," he said, then added, noticing Mark, "and to you as well, Mark."

"We fell asleep on the couch," said Bridget proactively.

"Yes," said Colin, as a grin spread over his face, "that is quite evident." He looked from his daughter to Mark then back to Bridget again. "Coffee all around? Breakfast?"

"Please," said Bridget eagerly.

"I know just what to make," he said. "I'll call for you when it's ready."

"Okay."

He retreated for the kitchen and she looked down to Mark again. He looked quite pensive, but in a happy way; it was a lovely thing to see. "I know we probably have some talking to do," he said, likely prompted by her own thoughtful expression in regarding him, "but right now I'm content enough in having you back. Everything else, no matter how difficult, will be worth doing to be with you."

She nodded, feeling very emotional again, and leaned forward to hug him. Now that they had straightened the major misunderstandings out, now that she knew he had not stopped loving her, she couldn't get enough of being close to him. To her delight, it seemed he felt the same way.

"Before breakfast is ready, why don't we wash up, take turns in the loo?" he said in his very usual logical manner.

She nodded; it was quite an excellent idea. "Oh God. I must have dragon breath," she said, suddenly mortified at the thought.

"Even if you did," he said, "I did say 'everything else, no matter how difficult'."

She laughed, then reached out to caress his face with her fingers. Caught quite firmly in his loving gaze, she leaned forward and kissed him, which led to her not heading up to the loo but to being pulled to lie down beside him once more. Despite claiming to have 'enough sense', he seemed to be unable to keep his hands from roaming over her as they continued kissing, and she gasped into his mouth as he swept his palm over her breast, then down over her bottom, squeezing gently, pressing her into him—

"Good heavens!"

Her mother's voice.

They scrambled apart as best they could from a reclined position on the couch; Bridget pushed herself up to sit, and Mark tried his best to look nonchalant though she knew this was more of a nightmare come true for him than for her. Bridget knew she was blushing as she forced what she hoped was a natural-looking smile at her mother, even as she shuddered to think how much Pam had seen. "Good morning, Mum."

"What's going on?" she asked sternly.

"I apologise," said Mark. "I was just giving her a kiss good morning."

Pam pursed her lips.

"It's been a long nine months without your daughter," he added.

"Oh, Pam." Her father's voice. "Give the lovebirds a break, and come lay out the table. Eggy bread is almost ready."

In an instant, Pam's expression seemed to soften and she even smiled a little. "I'll be right there."

As her mother retreated to the kitchen, Bridget started to laugh, which set Mark off as well, and before too long they were hugging and giggling and playfully kissing before he reared back and combed his fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face.

"Have I mentioned I've missed you?" he said.

"You might have done," she said.

"I don't think I've laughed as much over the last nine months as I have in the last… well, less than a day."

"Yeah," she said. "Me, neither."

Colin Jones had really outdone himself for breakfast; she had devoured two pieces of eggy bread and was considering a third when her mother said, "And after this, we'll get the curry to going… Una's got dessert covered… and people will start arriving at about three."

In her excitement in getting back together with Mark, she had completely and utterly forgotten about the Turkey Curry Buffet. She nearly dropped her fork, and shot a look to Mark. He looked disappointed.

"Everyone will be so glad to see you, Bridget," continued Pam. "And you're looking so much better now than when you first got back."

"Still think you're too thin," said Colin matter-of-factly.

"I'm working on that," she said sarcastically as she speared another section of eggy bread.

Under the table, she felt his left hand cover her knee and squeeze reassuringly. The Turkey Curry Buffet was going to seem interminable, but she reminded herself of what he'd said the previous evening, and flashed a smile at him. _If good things come to those who wait,_ she thought, _I should be lined up for something astonishing._

After they were finished eating, her mother busied herself with clearing the table. Mark set his fork down and said to Bridget, "I'm going to head back to my parents', have a shower, shave, and a change of clothes. I'll see you later."

She smiled and nodded.

Very much aware of her parents' eyes on herself and Mark, she felt very subconscious as he stood then leaned to peck her cheek. He then turned to them. "Thank you for your hospitality, and for the delicious breakfast, Mr and Mrs Jones. I'll see you later."

Pam smiled warmly, his part in the incident in the sitting room apparently forgotten, while Colin grinned and nodded. "Don't mention it, Mark. Always a pleasure."

After he'd gone, it didn't take long for the expected lecture to begin.

"Bridget," Pam scolded, putting the jams and syrups away. "Letting Mark… do certain things."

She supposed Pam thought these code words would go over her father's head. It was a pretty ridiculous thing to say, considering her history with Julian. And really, did Pam really think that she had never slept with Mark in their time together? "Mother," she said emphatically. "It's not like we were doing anything but kissing. And I'm hardly a teenager."

Her father busied himself with the dishes.

"Hm," Pam said disapprovingly.

"Plus," she said, "it isn't as if I don't love him."

Pam stopped what she was doing and looked to Bridget. "This is what I don't understand about you young people today. You love him! And yet you chucked him without bothering to find out the truth. I don't know what you were thinking."

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, looking down.

Her father came to her rescue. "Pam, lighten up on the girl. He's a good man, but not exactly transparent about his feelings, in case you didn't notice. Misunderstandings happen. The important thing is that everything gets straightened out in the end, and you find one another again."

He put his hand on his wife's shoulder, smiling tenderly as Pam turned to look at him. The second meaning did not go unnoticed to either of them.

Pam smiled at her husband, then leaned into him as he put his arm about her waist. "I suppose you have a point," she said softly, apparently conceding the fight. "Well, Bridget, go on, have a shower, get dressed, and if you're up to helping peel potatoes…"

She smiled and nodded, even though her potato-peeling skills always were a subject of scorn. She knew she should have felt redeemed at her father's words, but instead only felt unsettled. As she showered, combed her hair, got dressed, that odd unsettling spiralled into bona fide guilt. Why had she been so willing to believe the worst of a man who had never done anything to deserve it? No wonder he had bristled and refused to answer her question about Rebecca.

She helped her mother with the potatoes, because at least the occasional pointing-out of a missed eye here or there at least took her mind off of the remorse she felt for everything she had set into motion by chucking Mark. Would she ever have even agreed to go to Thailand if she'd had Mark to bounce the idea off of? _Probably not_ , she thought. He would have reminded her what a bad idea it would have been to trust Daniel Cleaver in any way, shape or form. And the whole prison ordeal would never have happened…

She was going to have to spend the entire day being sociable and smiley when what she really wanted to do was hole up in her room, close the blinds, and wallow in her self-pity. Yes, Mark still loved her and they were back together, but so much time had been wasted, and all because of her own stupidity.

Soon the house was filled with the scent of heating turkey and spicy curry; before she knew it, her mother was announcing that people would be arriving soon.

She sighed again. _Showtime._

The Darcys, ever gracious, were among the first to arrive, and the hug she got from Elaine was wonderful and reassuring. "So good to have you back," she said, pulling away to look at her; the smile told Bridget that Elaine meant more than just returned from Thailand.

"It's very good to be back," concurred Bridget, glancing to Mark.

Malcolm gave her a hug too before Mark was at her side, sliding an arm around her waist, almost as if he knew she needed to lean on him in more than just a physical manner. "They're very happy about how things have turned out," Mark said quietly to her.

"I'm glad."

One by one the rest of the usual gang arrived; the Alconburys, the Enderburys, Penny and Aunt Shirley and all the others. It was nice to see them all, wonderful to know they had all been here rooting for her… but truth be told, it was all very wearing on her. She felt like she was being passed around from person to person like a newborn baby or a particularly adorable kitten. When it came time to eat, she picked through her serving of turkey curry, sipped at her glass of wine and hoped it would help with the tension headache she was developing with all of the smiling she'd done that day.

When she'd finished eating all she could eat, she set her plate down and went to find her mother; she wasn't sure where Mark had gone off to, possibly waylaid by Geoffrey or his own father. She told Pam, "Mum, I need a bit of a lie down. This is all getting to be a bit much for me."

Pam nodded. "Try not to be gone too long. Everyone's so glad to see you, but I'm sure they'll understand."

"Thanks."

She padded upstairs, went into her bedroom, closed the blinds and got between the sheets. The silence was comforting and she felt more at ease already, but even still she began to cry. It wasn't as if anything was actually wrong; it just seemed like the rollercoaster ride of emotions over the last week, the last _day_ , had finally caught up to her.

To her surprise she felt the bed beside her sink. "Hey, everything all right?" It was Mark.

"Oh," she said, wiping under her eyes and turning over to look at him. It was dim in the room but not so dim that she couldn't see the concern on his face. "Yes. Fine. Just a little overwhelmed."

"Poor darling," he said. He pushed the sheets back, swung his legs up and laid down beside her, covering them both up again. She scooted up into his embrace and immediately felt better, if a little confessionary.

"And…" she began, then stopped short before blurting, "feeling guilty."

"What for?"

"For chucking you, for thinking you'd been unfaithful, for questioning you on it, for setting myself up for nine miserable months—"

"Hold on, Bridget," he said. "Don't place all of the blame at your own feet. I had been spending a lot of time with Rebecca, and was so fixed on keeping you and work separate… I should have realised how it might have appeared. You were right to ask me about it, and I was wrong to respond in such a knee-jerk manner. I was wrong to not come after you and beg you to change your mind. My hurt pride should not have been more important than you and your trust in me."

To hear him admit this brought fresh tears to her eyes, even as she smiled. She raised her head, then pushed herself up and pressed her lips to his, then again, then taking his mouth with hers, each kiss more ravenous than the last. Within moments the flames of her passion for him, held at bay since the night before, were fanned to full strength; from the way he flattened her against the mattress, the way was running his hand up her leg, pushing her skirt up, teasing the elastic edge of her pants, she reasoned he felt much the same way.

"Mark," she gasped, protesting weakly. "Is this such a good idea?"

"Don't fucking care," he murmured in return as he tugged down on her pants; the feel of his hands on the skin of her inner thigh was almost more than she could bear, and she bit down hard on her lip to quiet the anguished moan at the back of her throat.

He cursed quietly under his breath as he struggled to get his own trousers undone and out of the way. "Jesus, Bridget," he said, pushing her jumper up, running his hands over her stomach, cupping a breast in his hand.

She knew what he was thinking. "You aren't going to break me," she reassured.

However, it wasn't as if he didn't try. Nine months was a long time to be without the love of one's life; there were equal parts desperation and reverence to their lovemaking. Whether due to the nature of their surroundings or the urgency of their pent-up desire, culmination came all too quickly; Bridget, however, was not unsatisfied by any means, and she knew there would be time enough for lingering later.

Resting on the pillows afterwards, clinging to one another and gulping down air, he placed little kisses all over her jaw and throat. She felt a great burst of love swell up inside of her. Everything was going to be all right.

He righted her jumper then smoothed the knit with his hand down over her abdomen before curling his fingers round her hip and pulling her up against him once more. "Wish I'd thought to flip the door lock," he said.

She giggled, nestling close into his neck. "That would have been tricky—my door doesn't lock. My mum made sure of that, age fourteen."

It was his turn to chuckle, though she knew that had they been caught in the act, Mark's mortification would have been unmatched, even compared to her own.

Warm and cosy in his arms, she felt herself drift in and out of sleep. She didn't know how long they had been up there but she didn't think it had been that long; however, she was fully awake when the door swung open, light from the hallway filled the room and she heard her father's voice: "Bridget, wake up; they're about to serve the Raspberry—" He broke off, undoubtedly at seeing that she was not alone. She thanked God and all the angels in heaven that they were fully dressed from the waist up, and otherwise covered by sheets and blankets. "Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't realise Mark had come up to nap with you."

"Yes," said Mark; she was sure that his skin was blazing red. "I thought she might like a bit of a cuddle."

If her father suspected more had happened, he didn't show it, and in fact, his grin was broad and genuine. "Well, just wanted to let you know. I know you like Una's Raspberry Surprise." With that he retreated and pulled the door closed again.

"Oh my God," she said, burying her face in Mark's shirt. "That was bloody close."

To her surprise, he chuckled, probably in nervous, relieved reflex to disaster being averted. "What do you say," began Mark, "about getting some dessert, then making the journey back to London?"

She nodded. Back to her flat, to privacy, and to no more surprise discoveries by her parents.

………

Bridget seemed to be able to fall asleep at a moment's notice since her return from Thailand, and the drive back to London was no different. She had been reflecting on the time with her parents—how grateful she had been to get a chance to reconnect with them, but knew the time was right to return to London before her mother made her go mental—as well as the evening with the unconditional love of family and family friends. There was, of course, the unexpected and magnificent reunion with Mark to smile about, too, and smile she did. It had been a truly perfect day.

He woke her with a gentle kiss to her cheek. She opened her eyes and looked to him. "We're back." He had parked the car on the street just outside of her flat.

"Oh." She pushed herself up, reached to undo her safety belt. "I'm sorry I dozed off."

"Don't be sorry," he said. He rose from the car and got her bags out of the boot as she got out and fished the key to her flat out of her bag.

"I've missed this place," he said.

Sliding the key into the lock, she chuckled. "You only want me for my flat."

He leaned into her and placed a kiss into her hair. "Yes, Bridget, that's it exactly."

They headed up into her flat; he set the bags down, took off his coat, and cast his gaze around the room. "Looks like I remember it."

"Not much has changed since you were here last Wednesday."

"When I was here last Wednesday the only thing I remember was seeing you looking nothing like your usual self."

She smiled almost shyly. "You remember asking me to testify?"

"Vaguely," he said, cracking a smile at last. "You still all right with doing that?"

"Yup," she said.

"We'll have to practice a little for that."

She screwed up her features in confusion. "Practice testifying?"

"Not like 'learning lines' practice," he said. "But rather, I throw questions at you that you're likely to be asked, so that you can think about answering them in the most confident manner you possibly can."

"Oh," she said, grinning.

He came forward and took her hand in his. "With the trial approaching we'll likely garner media attention again," he said. "We—you and I—may need to keep things a little low-key until everything's over."

She nodded, understanding. "You can come over to practice testifying every night."

At that he laughed, pulling her into his arms. He murmured into her ear, "Absolutely."

As he kissed her, she could only think that every moment with him was like a homecoming.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the English call 'eggy bread', Americans call [French toast](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_toast).

**Author's Note:**

> [An average day in a Thai prison](http://www.thaiprisonlife.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=74&Itemid=99). [Surviving in a Thai prison](http://www.thai-blogs.com/index.php/2007/04/18/surviving_in_a_thai_prison?blog=5). By the same guy. Very interesting reading.
> 
> [Wikipedia's page on Thailand](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thailand), including information on the predominant religion.
> 
> [Bangkok's climate and weather patterns](http://www.wordtravels.com/Cities/Thailand/Bangkok/Climate); the temperature really doesn't seem to vary much.
> 
> [The route, in blue, from Heathrow to Bridget's part of London.](http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=London+Heathrow+Airport,+Hounslow,+Hillingdon,+TW6+1,+United+Kingdom+\(Heathrow+Airport+Taxi+Transfer\)&daddr=southwark,+london,+uk&hl=en&geocode=CfUJctgS7HK4FTpjEQMd7Rj5_yHZCklWkHMp9Q%3B&mra=pe&mrcr=0&sll=51.)
> 
> ETA: Apparently "cold-cock" is an American-ish slang. Sorry. It means to "knock (someone) out, typically with a blow to the head."


End file.
